


I'm On Fire (And You're Made of Ashes)

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But First I'll Make You Suffer, Canon Divergence - Post-Hogwarts, Drarry, Established Relationship, I Can't Stress Enough That There IS A Happy Ending, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Is Extreme Sadness an Archive Warning?, M/M, it should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26207908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: His in-drawn breath is sharp and loud in the house where nothing lives anymore, not even his heart.Especially not his heart.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 88





	I'm On Fire (And You're Made of Ashes)

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh, I'm sorry in advance for this tour de pain. I was just in a Mood tonight. Also, avoiding the very late revisions for my book, as one does. I will be posting to This Is Me Trying again as soon as I turn this project in, and while I can't say there won't be ANY angst, it certainly won't be this heavy, promise!
> 
> As always, comments are ambrosia and I live off them. <3 
> 
> (Not betaed because we die like men... with great drama and loud complaints. Also, it's after midnight here and I've gone Full Author Gremlin.)

The house is silent. Dust motes filter through the dying afternoon light that cuts across the sitting room. Half eaten cartons of take-out crowd the low coffee table, piled on top of days old editions of the Prophet, and aborted, scratched out attempts at Owls. A lonely bottle with only a few drops of a clear and potent liquid left in the bottom has been abandoned on the rug, limp brown fingers slowly brush back and forth over the curve of the glass.

Harry's not sleeping.

Sleep doesn’t seem to be something he does much of anymore. Not since… well. He just doesn’t.

The ceiling blurs out as he stares at it, then sharpens back into focus when he finally blinks away the dryness in his eyes. Has that crack always been there? Draco used to tell him he needed to take more care with Grimmauld Place, with himself too. Apparently there were a lot of things he should have taken more care with. But he’d been care _less_ , because for the first time, someone had been taking care of him. Made sure he had a clean, neat house to come home to, good food to fill him up, soft clothes to wear, and arms to encircle him when he woke up screaming from nightmares. It was like nothing he’d ever had, and he’d wrapped himself up in it, selfishly soaked up every drop. It never occurred to him that he could drain that river dry; taking, taking, always taking.

His in-drawn breath is sharp and loud in the house where nothing lives anymore.

The afternoon wanes, and the house only lights a few sconces for him, just bright enough to make the inky shadows deeper. It judges him, Grimmauld Place. He can feel the sharp resentment in the walls, the sadness that fades the once lively wallpaper, and the pain of loss has dulled the satin smooth wood floor. The house aches too, retreating into memories, the echo of throaty laughter and hiccuped, desperate pleas ( _God, just touch me, Draco, anywhere, anywhere, please_ ) drifting from room to room.

It's nothing he can’t handle. He's handling it.

Not well, of course. But he's still here, isn’t he? Took indefinite leave from the Aurors, cleared his social calendar, and settled in for the long haul. Right here, where Draco left him. Here where they had laughed and fought and made love, and _lived_. Here, where every room is still full of Draco's books, the small things he’d salvaged from the Manor before it was appropriated for war reparations, and the closets of the extravagant clothes Harry used to tease him over.

_A hundred gallons! I’ve never spent that much on one shirt in my life._

_Merlin, and it shows, Harry._

_Piss off._

_I shan’t. I do love you, you know, regardless of the tragedy that is your fashion sense._

Draco had adored his bright, expensive clothes, and wore them even when he and Harry had nowhere to be. When he'd gone away, however, he hadn't taken so much as a sock with him. Left it all behind, every bit at Grimmauld, as if he was determined to shed his old life like an too-small snakeskin.

Harry sits up, digging the edges of his palms into his closed eyes until light sparks behind his lids. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck. Fuck this shit. Just… _fuck_!” he yells into the offended gloom of the house.

Shoving himself to his feet, he stops and just looks around for a moment. The entire room is a mess. Not just dusty, but actually unclean. He can’t even remember what he’d spilled near the entryway, but it smells sour now. The idea of putting it all to rights is so overwhelming, it nearly sends him back to the couch. But he can almost hear Draco scoffing in his ear.

_The Chosen One, defeated by some dust bunnies and tea drippings? Pathetic, Potter._

Pulling out his wand, Harry points it at the coffee table and Vanishes the trash scattered on top of it, just to make the voice go away. The clean surface gleams up at him, and his chest loosens just enough to draw in a breath deeper than any he’d been able to take in days. Quickly, he turns and starts Vanishing more trash, throwing in the occasional cleaning or polishing spell as well. He skips over Draco's things, and the ones they've collected together, looking past them as if they're Disillusioned. In short order, the room looks almost the same as it did before.

Before.

The pain sweeps through him again, nearly knocking him to his knees with the searing depth and breadth of it. Clenching his teeth, movements jerky, Harry makes his way from the room to the bottom of the stairs. It takes everything he has in him to climb them to the second floor. 

His study first.

Vanish. Vanish. Clean. Polish.

The small library they'd kept, an odd mix of Auror manuals, potion texts, and those Muggle romance novels that Draco loves so much, was next. Same routine. Vanish. Vanish. clean. Polish. It gets a little easier with each room. A bathroom, both guestrooms, a linen closet, another bathroom. It takes hours, but bit by bit, he begins to recognize the house again. It looks like it's _his_ again. The place he’d come to love, the house that became a home. The walls creak quietly as he reaches out, running one hand along a banister, and something close to a sigh sweeps through the air, ruffling his curls. For a moment, he almost remembers what peace feels like. Then he turns around.

The door at the end of the hall is to be avoided at all costs, the room he isn’t allowed in. Too many breakable things, filled with liquids and gases and potions, and Harry is as graceful as an Erumpent.

_Don’t you dare put one toe inside that doorway, Potter, honestly you’re a menace._

It occurs to him he’s been standing there for a while, staring at the door, wand clutched up tight against his chest. His joints feel rusty when he forces himself to move again, turning towards the next set of stairs. It's like fighting treacle, putting one foot in front of the other, climbing towards a nightmare, towards something truly awful. 

Ruthlessly driving himself towards the dead heart of the house.

Faltering in the doorway, Harry grips the wood casing with white knuckles. At first, he can’t make himself look up from the tips of his shoes. Oh, how Draco would have shouted at him for wearing boots like these in the house. Draco had changed over the years, purging himself of the blood prejudice he'd been raised on, but sometimes Harry thinks Draco hated the Muggles who raised Harry more than Harry himself did. He’d insult the Dursleys, saying Harry would been better off raised by werewolves, when it came down to it. Despite that, he still got impatient when Harry would unwittingly break some house rule or another of Draco’s, like with the shoes.

 _Merlin_ , he’d started to snap, towards the end, _Merlin, Harry, I've asked you to take those blasted things off at the front door so many times. Can't you at least make an effort? Sometimes I feel like I’m raising you all over again!_

Clenching and unclenching the fist holding his wand, Harry draws in as deep a breath as the iron bands around his chest will allow. What little ground he’d gained slowly working his way through the rooms below is lost. He should have stopped while he was ahead, should have known he wasn’t ready for this. Not that he can figure out how to _make_ himself ready for it. It's been over a month and he’s spent all his nights on the sitting room couch. Once, he’d managed to enter the bedroom and gather a handful of clothes blindly, not caring what he chose. The mismatched odds and ends have done him well enough since, but even freshening charms lose their effectiveness after a while.

At least Hermione and Ron have been giving him his space. He doesn’t think he can bear the pity and faint horror he's sure to see on their faces once they realize how he’d been living since… since. He knows they won't be held at bay much longer, though, hence the cleaning. 

Taking several measured breaths, Harry forces his head up. Forces himself to step into the door. Walk to the bed. To lower himself gingerly to the mattress and reach out to gather the sheaf of documents scattered across the bunched up blankets. The papers, crumpled from angry hands, had been the victim of a particularly vicious tantrum. He carefully lays his wand on the bed next to him, then sets about unwrinkling each page and smoothing out the creases. It would have been nice if the mindless task soothed him, but Harry just feels numb.

 _You’re never here anyway, Harry._ A bitter laugh. _You won’t even notice I’m gone._

_How can you say that? What the fuck is wrong with you?_

_Oh, I don’t know, maybe it's true? I just want to be first with you one damn time! I’m your husband, but everyone else— your adoring public, the Aurors, the Weasleys, everyone! Everyone comes before me. Before us. For Merlin's sake, you spent the night of our anniversary at a fundraiser for a charity I bet you don't even remember the name of now, because they asked you and you are incapable of saying no. I want you to choose **me** for once, Harry! _

_So, what? Now I can’t have friends? Or a career? I can't do charity work without you thinking I'm sort of doormat, because I care?_

_Haven't you given enough? When is time for you to concentrate on your own life, and stop giving away pieces of you to everyone who asks?_

_I’m not like you, Draco, I'm not content to sit home and listen to the wireless and drink wine and read books. I want to help people, help rebuild the wizarding world. There's so much left to do._

_Well, if that wasn't a clear indication of what you really think... Studying for my Potions mastery isn't sitting around and eating bonbons, you arsehole, and fuck you for implying it is. But never mind. Clearly you can’t give me what I want, and I was a fool to think you would. I’m exhausted from holding this relationship together single-handedly, and I can’t, no, I won’t do it anymore._

_That’s it, then? Five years, and because I've been busy lately, you’re tossing it aside like it means nothing? And here I thought your days of cowardice were over._

_I can't believe you just said that. No, I can. You always have fought dirty, haven't you, Harry?_

_Stop it._

_Hitting a little too close to home?_

_Go then, Draco, if you want to leave so badly. Go. And don’t come back._

_Harry—_

_Go!_

The papers are crumbled again, clenched tight in both of Harry's shaking fists. The air is cool on his cheeks and he realizes his face is wet. He longs to crawl out of his skin and find somewhere else to live. Some crack n the plaster, some shadow tucked away in the corner, somewhere he doesn’t feel like his chest is cracking open and a dark thing is trying to claw its way out. Will it always feel like this? Bright and sharp, like blood against the flash of the blade. Will it always feel like he cut out his own heart and thrown it away without a thought?

It's unbearable.

“Oh. Harry. What mess have you made of yourself? Look at you, sweetheart.” A hard shudder runs through him at the soft voice, caught with emotion, a pain to match his own. A body drops to its knees in front of him, pale hair a beacon in the gloom, and long, cool fingers pry his fists open. “ _Darling_.”

Air rushes in on a heaving gasp. “You left. You were gone.”

“A mistake,” Draco murmurs into his ear as he pushes his way between Harry’s knees, pressing his body tight against Harry’s. “I was angry, and sad, it was building for too long, then suddenly it was spilling out everywhere and I had no control over it. I should have been more open about the truth of it, instead of constantly snapping at you, and making a fuss over small things so I wouldn't have to face the big ones.” He moves a fraction of an inch away, letting go of one of Harry’s hands to push back the heavy tangle of curls that fell over Harry’s forehead. “Believe it or not, as a Malfoy, I was not raised to be well equipped in dealing with my feelings in any sort of productive way. _Conceal, don’t feel_. Should have been the family motto, really,” he finishes, with a slight, wobbly smile.

“I didn’t make it easy. I know I didn’t.” Slumping forward, Harry pushes his face into the crook of his husband’s neck and breathes in the spice of cologne he thought he’d never smell again. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you’re always an afterthought to me. You’re not, you never have been.”

“Ah,” sighs Draco. “If I wasn’t who I am, it probably wouldn’t even have bothered me, much, to share you with so many other people. But when everyone else was lining up to remind you of all the reasons you shouldn’t love me... It just felt so _loud_ , sometimes, and I started to wonder if you would start listening to them.”

“Is that what you thought, when I was away for work and at charity events so often?”

“Well, I didn’t know, did I? It was always easier for you to go alone, no one wants me there. And I couldn’t ask. Too much pride, I suppose. Also, if I'm being truthful, too much fear.” Draco’s laugh is short and self-deprecating. "I was afraid confronting you with the problems I had with our relationship would remind you that you could have anyone, you didn't have to settle for an ex-Death Eater who didn't even get his N.E.W.T.S. until he was nearly twenty-four."

"You're fucking brilliant. One of the smartest people I know, Draco, and one of my best friends is Hermione Granger." A ghost of smile appears on Harry's face at the small, much less bitter, laugh that Draco lets out. He pulls away then, and Harry makes a noise of protest, fisting the material of his husband’s shirt tightly in one hand. But Draco's only moving to sit next to him on the mattress.

"I think... I think I started to feel like I was being swallowed up by you, Harry. By your life. Once I finally sat my exams, I was at loose ends, with no Manor and no job, and Grimmauld was still in such disrepair from the war. I felt like I had purpose again, making it into a home for you." His husband's voice is careful, as if he's feeling along the edges of a great bruise. "I was able to lose myself in that, for a while. Until it wasn't enough anymore. But even after I decided on getting my Potions mastery, I was so restless. Some days I felt trapped here, and you were like a guest at an inn. Always one foot out the door by the time I turned around. I didn't know how to ask you to stay. So instead I let the anger and hurt fester, and picked fights with you just to hold your attention."

"Just like old times, then," Harry tries to joke, but he knows it falls flat, his voice too uncertain still.

Draco makes an exasperated sound, but one also full of fondness. It steadies Harry, just a little more. His pulse is thumping hard as he lays one hand flat over Draco's chest, over his own heart. "I'd never had a home, a _real_ home, until you made me one, you know. I'm sorry if I never said, or I didn't show you what it meant to me, because it meant everything. I'm sorry was careless with your love. I didn't realize how much it meant to me to be the man Draco Malfoy loved, until I thought I wasn't anymore."

“ _Darling_ ,” his husband whispers, gray eyes wide and stricken as he brushes elegant fingers across Harry’s cheek. His breath catches when Harry turns his face into the caress. 

He has to know. To make sure. “Why did you come back?” His question hangs in the air, the house itself holds its breath.

“Because I can’t live without you.” Draco’s gaze is as fierce and pale as a white-hot fire in the clear morning light that's spilling over the window sill. “I tried. Oh, I gave it a good shot, Harry. Ask Pansy. Or Blaise. Anyone, everyone. I did things, so many things, all the things! It was whirlwind, with pureblood family teas, and pureblood family brunches, and pureblood ball after tedious, stuffy ball. I think Mother was attempting to marry me off again before I'd even managed to divorce my first husband, but this time to a proper, non-Dark-Lord-killing society gentleman. I wanted nothing of it, I assure you, but I also continued to tell myself that I was absolutely _not_ searching every crowd for a mop of unmanageable black curls. I told myself I liked, no, I _loved_ my new life, and if I kept myself busy enough, I could almost think I meant it.”

“I didn’t move off the couch for three days after you left."

Draco makes a helpless sound, pressing his body close to Harry again, as close as they can get and still be two separate people.

“I couldn’t live without you either, except I knew it,” Harry confesses. “The moment you left, I knew it was wrong. But you were gone, and had been so set on leaving. I thought… I thought it was what you wanted, what you needed. I tried to let go, but I couldn’t.”

“I’m glad you couldn’t let go of us, even though I’m dreadfully sorry I hurt you, darling,” Draco whispers into Harry’s knuckles, holding them to his lips as if they're something precious to him.

“So you’re too full of pride and emotionally constipated, and it turns out, I don’t actually know how to be in a healthy relationship. We’re a right mess, the pair of us.”

“Yes. A terrible mess, I fear. Quite a lot of work to do, sorting it all out. Years of it. Perhaps decades, even.” Draco’s voice wavers, but his hand moves to cup Harry’s chin more firmly. Turning Harry to face him, Draco brushes their lips together. Once. Twice. Deeper now, more insistent as the heat flares between them. They finally break apart on a gasp, Harry pressing his forehead to Draco’s, his lips buzzing. His chest feels like it's cracking open again, but this time it's a relief. Drawing in a fresh breath of cool, dawn air, Harry slides his free hand into the silky hair at the nape of Draco’s neck.

Gathering his courage, he tangles his fingers there, and asks, “Then we should probably stop wasting time. Stay?”

“Yes. Always. You'll be so sick of me, you regret having kept me keyed into the wards,” Draco says immediately. “I will never leave again, not like that. Never like that.”

Harry draws his husband close again, and pours all the love and longing he’d built up over the time they’d been apart into the kiss. Then he breaks away, picking up the divorce papers Draco had served him with in their bedroom thirty-two days ago, and throws them into the fireplace with a grimace of distaste. Pointing his wand at the pile, he murmurs an _incendio_ , feeling a sense of calm satisfaction wash over him when they go up in flames.

Turning back to Draco, he lets his mouth curl into in a tender smile, admiring the way the morning sun breaks golden over his gorgeous husband, bathing him in light. Thank Merlin and Morgana, for giving him a second chance. Promising himself silently that he will not to waste it, Harry extends one hand. 

He’s never seen as beautiful as the incandescent smile Draco sends him, as he places his hand in Harry’s and holds on tight.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you don't recognize the title, it's a bastardized version of one of the lyrics from Taylor Swift's My Tears Ricochet. If you haven't heard it, go listen. It's so painfully lovely. folklore has become my go-to writing album right now. Ugh, I can't stand myself, so much drama, LMAO.


End file.
